


Friends with Benefits

by dragonofdispair



Series: Across the Great Divide [4]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: (but not quite because it's claws not a knife), Accidental Voyeurism, Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Angry Sex, BDSM, Biting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Consent, Fast Fuck, Fear Play, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Exchange, Safewords, Semi-Public Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Violent Headspace, Violent Thoughts, slow fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8412250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: It’s just sex. Neither of them are looking for a relationship. They aren’t even friends.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Between the nature of Smokescreen’s kink and Ricochet’s occasionally violent headspace, parts (especially in the first chapter) of this come very close to these two characters playing out a rape fantasy, which I know can be triggery. So, be warned.
> 
> Beta’ed by 12drakon and Rizobact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smokescreen knows Ricochet’s dangerous, but he’s just looking to scratch an itch. Ricochet goes along with it ~~because he’s lonely~~.

If there was one slagging thing about Praxus that frustrated Ricochet, he’d have to say it was that Praxans were uptight, stiff,  _ prudish _ mechs who had the weirdest ideas about what should be discussed when. Especially sex. Praxans didn’t talk about sex. At all. It left a Polyhexian wondering just how in the  _ Pit _ any of them managed to get laid.

So, understanding that, and having long ago given up on getting a chance to play with those oh-so-tempting doorwings, the words, “So… now that we’ve got  _ that _ unpleasant business out of the way, how about you and I blow off some steam together?” were some of the last he’d ever expected to hear from a Praxan. Even a Praxan criminal.

Of course Ricochet didn’t choke on his own filters. Barely. Shock might be flushing through his lines in equal portions with lust, but a cool, collected, “Payment of debts is only in shanix, mech. You know that,” is what he  _ said. _

Unless Titanium asked for a favor. Or the debtor managed to do one for the Sire. Sex with Ricochet didn’t count.

The inveterate gambler just huffed. “I  _ know _ that. It’s why I waited until  _ after _ you had my money—”

“Sire’s money.”

“Fine. Whatever. Your  _ Sire’s _ money tucked away in your subspace to make a pass.” Smokescreen just huffed his vents. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I just thought that a Poly might appreciate the direct approach. If you want to be wined and dined like a Praxan, then you’re out of luck here. You just took all my spending money for the month.”

Ricochet in fact did  _ not _ want to be wined and dined like a Praxan. Pit, he didn’t want to  _ think _ about sex and Praxans. And  _ especially _ did not want to think about what it would feel like to have those intriguingly vulnerable sensor panels under his hands, pulling on them gently while he thrust into warm, wet heat, and black and white plating writhed under him—

With a growl of frustration, Ricochet jerked himself from his twin’s thoughts and blocked the bond as best he could. The images stopped leaking through, but Jazz’s  _ love/lust/not-going-to-overload-yet-want-to- _ **_savor_ ** was inescapable. Too strong to ignore completely. And at the same time far, far too  _ weak. _ It used to be that they’d had to  _ warn _ each other before they took a lover to bed, or else they’d get absolutely nothing done. Now Jazz could take his fragging  _ puppy dog _ to bed whenever the frag he liked and, yeah, Ricochet got a few images, some feelings, but only when he forgot his shields. It certainly didn’t stop him from shaking down gamblers with stronger addictions than common or financial sense.

Ricochet’s fans were spinning though. He sent his  _ annoyance _ with that down the bond; Jazz didn’t even notice, which angered Ricochet more.

Hmmm… Maybe he was just sending the wrong sort of feeling. Ricochet hadn’t been getting much of Jazz’s feelings other than the lust either. Could be worth a try. Even if it didn’t work, at least Ricochet would be doing something with his brother’s broadcast feelings, other than just being annoyed by them. He turned his speculative gaze on Smokescreen and traced the mech’s frame with it, from his feet to his chevron. Smokescreen. Red and blue with just hints of daring yellow. The Praxan grinned and tilted his doorwings in what Ricochet had learned was a flirtatious gesture.  _ Let’s have some fun. _

“I ain’t gonna be wining and dining y’either, Praxan.”

Smokescreen’s hopeful grin turned into a full fledged one of victory. “Oh thank Primus. I’m certainly not looking for a  _ relationship _ today.”

That piqued the interest of Ricochet’s inner gossip. “Bad break up?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“He still alive?”

“She,” Smokescreen corrected as he led Ricochet into his apartment. Ricochet had been  _ polite; _ he’d waited in the hall for the gambler to retrieve the shanix. Smokescreen always waited to pay until the absolute last minute possible, but he always paid in full, without needing to be threatened, so Ricochet was polite. It was one of the reasons Titanium trusted Ricochet with his Praxan debtors: Ricochet liked to fight, sure.  _ Liked _ beating the scrap out of mechs, but he didn’t pull out his baton until he had to. “And I had to file for a restraining order, but yeah, she’s still alive.”

“Then I’ll believe it.” Ricochet showed a hint of fang at Smokescreen’s unnerved look.

“I don’t know whether you’re joking or not,” the gambler finally huffed, hurrying over to a pile of dirty energon cubes and quickly rinsing two out. 

_ The  _ **_betrayer_ ** _ was already screaming.  _

_ “Really,” Ricochet cooed from his place straddled across Tangerine’s hip plating. This sort of taunt didn’t come naturally to him, but this wasn’t for him. Borrowing his twin’s sense of drama — taunting his prey like his twin would — wasn’t easy, but it  _ **_felt right._ ** _ “You would think I’d carved off something important already. It’s just a bit of armor on your arm. You’ll survive.” Ricochet gave a low, seductive chuckle that was utterly alien to his own vocalizer; Tangerine recognized it, though. The mech screamed again. Maybe he thought someone would find them if he screamed loud enough. _

_ Let the mech scream; no one was coming, and Ricochet would enjoy the screams while they lasted. He wanted to  _ **_tear_ ** _ into the mech for what he’d done to Jazz, but he didn’t. Mere death was too painless a punishment for betrayal. Excoriation had to be done  _ **_right._ ** _ Slow. Savored.  _

_ “You’ll survive,” he repeated while the mech’s vocalizer clicked in strain and stress as it gave out, “for a long time yet.” Tangerine would survive until Jazz woke up. Could be orns, decaorns even, according to the medics. “You and I, we have so much to  _ **_talk_ ** _ about.” _

Definitely not joking. Ricochet shook away the memory and didn’t elaborate for Smokescreen, who was handing his guest a cube of midgrade. A proper Praxan date this was not, but apparently even a one-night stand couldn’t escape a Praxan’s need to dance around the subject before getting down to business. Smokescreen cleared off his table and two of his chairs by the simple expedient of dumping all the clutter to the floor.

“So…” Smokescreen started when they were both seated, obviously flailing for small talk about anything  _ but _ what they were about to do. Ricochet decided enough was  _ enough. _ He still had his twin’s  _ near overload _ simmering in the back of his spark, and he was twitchy and irritated, and if he was going to get laid tonight he didn’t want to deal with this Praxan’s annoying  _ prudishness _ on top of it. 

He downed the cube in a single gulp, put the cube aside, and stalked around the table to Smokescreen. The Praxan squeaked as claws scraped gently against his jaw. Ricochet gave him another fanged smirk before leaning down to  _ take _ a long kiss.

_ Arousal _ sparked between them and Smokescreen’s fans  _ burred _ alongside Ricochet’s own. The Praxan fumbled to put the cube down on the table without spilling it all over the floor and Ricochet, uh,  _ helpfully _ guided the mech’s hand there. He felt the mech’s engine whine, EM field sparking with  _ nervousness-almost fear-surprise _ as Ricochet’s claws pricked the cables where the wrist armor was thinnest. Ricochet frowned as he drew back slightly from the kiss. That wasn’t right.

Looking at Smokescreen’s optics now, he didn’t see a mech who was afraid of his lover. He looked like he’d been properly enjoying the kiss, but Ricochet couldn’t ignore that twinge of fear he’d felt in Smokescreen’s field. There was a reason Ricochet didn’t usually clang his targets. “You alright, mech?”

“What? Yes. Fine.” Ricochet didn’t have doorwings to express his incredulousness, and Smokescreen couldn’t see infrared, so he projected it as strongly as he could with his own EM field. Deliberately he ran his claws over the vulnerable cables in Smokescreen’s wrist again. This time, with his mouth unoccupied, Ricochet clearly heard him squeak with the  _ almost fear _ that flickered across his EM field.

Frag. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. He let go of Smokescreen’s wrist. “Ain’t gonna interface with ya if yer scared’a me.”

“What? No! Come back!” Smokescreen lunged out of his chair and grabbed Ricochet’s wrist. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m not afraid of you. I just... “ he trailed off. “That was good. I liked it.” The mech kept his embarrassment out of his field, but even in these overly-bright lights Ricochet could see it flush hot through his systems. “I like…” he made an awkward gesture with his other hand. “That,” he finished lamely.

Ricochet settled. Okay. Sure. He didn’t think Praxans did kinky, but if that wasn’t the most awkward explanation for fear play he’d ever heard he’d eat his own baton. “Ta clarify, you like feeling afraid I  _ might _ hurt ya, or you want me to actually do so?”

He almost laughed at how Smokescreen’s optics went wide, his fans suddenly kicking into higher gear. Obviously he liked that idea, but, “I think I’d prefer if we stuck with the first. You’re not going to get all weird about this?”

Why the frag would he get weird about a little edge play? “No,” he paused, his inner gossip sensing something that made him add, “Your femme get weird about it?”

“Sorta,” the embarrassment was back. “It was the first time doing something like that for both of us. She liked it, but got pushy about it.”

Pushy enough to need a restraining order. Ricochet’s fans were suddenly spinning for a whole new reason, and  _ frag _ if it didn’t feel good to have an excuse to mix anger and lust. He turned and loomed into Smokescreen’s space, who, despite being a bit taller than Ricochet, gasped and backed away. This time Ricochet saw the mix of lust and fear of someone who  _ wanted _ be frightened. “Restraining orders ain’t worth slag. She  _ ever _ comes back here, you tell me.” He stalked forward, herding Smokescreen to the wall, where he gasped again as he realized he was cornered. “And I want her name.”

“Why? That’s not why we broke up.”

So he could spread it around and blacklist her in the ghetto, in case she ever came sniffing for someone more receptive to power exchange than the average Praxan. “Don’t matter, Smokescreen,” Ricochet hissed, gently grasping his chin again, this time deliberately letting his claws scrape along the underside of his jaw, perilously close to the vital cables of his throat.  _ Lust _ and  _ fear _ buzzed around them like an ungrounded wire, and it was interesting to watch Smokescreen try to both pull away and lean in closer. “Her name.”

“Aurora,” Smokescreen gasped out.

“Good mech,” Ricochet backed off, letting the Praxan recover. Much as he  _ wanted _ to frag the mech against the wall, there were a few things they needed to go over before getting into any sort of power exchange. Smokescreen’s engine whined in disappointment. Apparently Ricochet wasn’t the only one hoping for a good wall-frag, so Ricochet didn’t back off  _ much. _ He still crowded Smokescreen against the wall, still held his jaw in one hand, his wrist in the other, but he toned down the overtly threatening EM projection. “Before we go any further, I gotta know what’s your safeword, mech.”

“Safeword?”

Ricochet wanted to bash his head against the wall next to Smokescreen. Idiot! He wasn’t sure which of them he was referring to, but at least one of them was an idiot. Probably both. “You like being afraid. Protests — real and not — make the fear a bit more real. Sharper. More enjoyable for some, and I don’t know if yer one’a them.” Chances actually were good that, given license to protest without bringing the game to an end, he would. Words had power, and saying  _ yes, please more _ didn’t easily let a mech keep feeling that fear he wanted to feel. “Gets confusing for me, trying to sort the real protests from the not-real ones. So I need a word, something you wouldn’t ever, under any circumstances, say during interfacing, that’ll tell me in no uncertain terms ta stop.”

Activities needing safewords were more Jazz’s stripe than Ricochet’s, but with Smokescreen so obviously into it and Ricochet still wanting to feel a bit of anger with his lust, he was thinking just  _ frag it choose something already _ by the time Smokescreen had been considering it for a few kliks.

“Diamondback,” he finally decided. “It was my carrier’s name. I don’t expect to be thinking about him  _ at all _ while we do this.”

Ricochet chuckled, not surprised. Nothing killed the mood like hearing a parent’s name being called out during sex. “Mine’s safeword.”

He gave Smokescreen enough time to be confused by that, either by Ricochet needing a safeword even though he was the one that was in control, or by the choice of word itself, then let anger spark. How  _ dare— _

Smokescreen squeaked as he was hoisted up an inch on the wall, held there by Ricochet’s new grip on his collar struts. Reflexively he struggled. Ricochet brought end to that by  _ taking _ another kiss. Smokescreen’s fingers dug into the armor on Ricochet’s arms, pushing him away and pulling him closer at the same time. With a growl, Ricochet nipped Smokescreen’s lip, fangs putting tiny dents in the thin, flexible plating. He watched the Praxan’s optics go wide as a wash of  _ fear _ flared between them when Smokescreen realized just  _ how _ easy it would be for Ricochet to hurt him. Those claws and those fangs weren’t just for show. He started struggling in earnest against the hold.

Ricochet dropped him, stepping away and letting him clatter to the ground on arousal-weakened knees. He gave Smokescreen a moment to start to skitter away, then grabbed him with one hand one the back of the neck, claws pricking against the struts. With a fearful whine, Smokescreen stilled, spilling  _ arousal _ into the air as heat and electricity. 

Those so temptingly vulnerable doorwings splayed out as Smokscreen trembled on the ground. It  _ did things _ to Ricochet. Another flash of another mech, black and white, and of stroking those panels oh-so-reverently bubbled up from Ricochet’s spark, and he met Smokescreen’s  _ fear _ with his own  _ anger. _

“I’m gonna drag ya over t’the bed, Smokescreen, and yer gonna let me do  _ whatever _ I want,” Ricochet hissed threateningly, letting the soft prick of claws tack on the  _ or else _ for him. Smokescreen whined, and Richochet tightened his grip and shook him. “Answer me.”

“Yes!” Despite his agreement, Ricochet felt him start to struggle again, trying to crawl away. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t hurt me.”

He tightened his grip and started to half-guide, half- _ drag _ the Praxan to the bedroom. It seemed that Smokescreen liked having permission to struggle because he did so, his  _ arousal _ ratcheting up higher as Ricochet continued to drag him, seemingly unconcerned with his prey’s efforts to escape. And, Primus help him, Ricochet was turned on too. Distantly he thought he should be  _ horrified _ by what he was thinking of doing to this mech. Dark thoughts, horrible thoughts. Make-his-twin- _ suffer _ thoughts.

Twisted up in anger — anger at his twin, anger at himself, anger at that Primus-damned  _ dog _ keeping his twin from him — lust, and Smokescreen’s intoxicating  _ fear, _ he tossed the mech face-down on the berth. Smokescreen tried to scramble away, but Ricochet climbed in after him and  _ held him down, _ spike-cover snapping open and the spike within extending, wonderfully, horribly  _ aroused _ by the struggles of a helpless mech beneath him.

He caught himself before he did anything he might regret. He wasn’t going to hurt Smokescreen just because his own headspace was a bit of a mess. “You remember your safeword, mech?”

“Yes!” the Praxan gasped. “Fraggit Ricochet, you were doing so  _ well. _ Don’t—”

Ricochet didn’t let Smokescreen finish. He held the mech’s doorwings down, out of the way, and  _ bit _ the edge of one plate of reddish shoulder armor, punching his fangs right through the civilian-grade plating.

Smokescreen  _ screeched, _ bucking and clawing at the bed, really, honestly trying to get away now. Ricochet let the mech’s plating go; he’d wanted a couple of neat holes, not to inflict tears that would be a serious injury. As it was, the bite had definitely  _ stung, _ and probably still ached with the reminder that Ricochet was  _ not to be trifled with. _ He growled, holding Smokescreen down until the mech exhausted himself, and he lay there, under Ricochet, trembling and radiating heat. Arousal and fear lit the mech up from within. Ricochet hadn’t bothered turning on the bedroom lights, perfectly content in the darkness while Smokescreen probably couldn’t see a thing. 

“Don’t sass me,” Ricochet growled in Smokescreen’s audio. “Ya know what ya have t’say t’make me stop, but otherwise I’m gonna do whatever th’ _ frag _ I want. Understand me?”

“Yes.” This time it was terrified whisper, not a defiant gasp.

Now that Smokescreen was compliant, Ricochet thought about what he should do first. Those doorwings were still oh-so-tempting…

Jazz’s overload ripped through his twin’s spark, and Ricochet lost all patience with thoughts of  _ play. _ He dug his claws into a gap around Smokescreen’s valve-cover. “Open this,” he growled.  _ “Now. _ Before I rip it off.”

The cover snapped back, releasing a trickle of built-up lubricant. 

Ricochet didn’t take any time to admire it, or prepare him, or any delay at all. He just buried himself in Smokescreen’s valve, making the mech cry out in mingled pleasure and pain. 

_ Yesssss. _ Spark and body almost in sync for the first time since Jazz started pulling away, Ricochet chased overload, trying to fall over the edge before his twin’s fully faded…

_ Smokescreen _ overloaded first, pulling Ricochet down with him, with a pair of cries.

They lay there, a satiated pile of metal that  _ ticked! _ as it cooled, for Ricochet didn’t know how long. He just draped himself over Smokescreen and enjoyed the feel of the mech’s valve still twitching around his spike with aftershocks of pleasure. Every so often Smokescreen would shudder, another, larger, aftershock ripping through him like a smaller overload, while Ricochet groaned. If the mech kept that up, he’d be up for round two in no time at all…

Well, why the frag not?

Ricochet felt… good. Better than he had in a long while. The anger was  _ gone, _ and Smokescreen wasn’t fully sensible yet, but his  _ body _ sure was up for another round. Experimentally he drew out slowly, then  _ pressed _ only a little faster back in. 

Smokescreen groaned. “...esssss.”

This time Ricochet set a pace that had them both moaning enjoyment as he languidly slid in and out of Smokescreen’s valve.

Even without the leakage of images from his twin, Smokescreen’s doorwings were still temptingly vulnerable, but it no longer felt like the right time to play with them. Instead, Ricochet just focused on the slow build of  _ pleasure _ in the loose, wet friction of his spike in Smokescreen’s valve. This was good. This was what Ricochet  _ usually _ liked from his partners.

Ricochet’s pleasure built, but Smokescreen’s plateaued, the gentle frag not quite enough to push his overclocked neural net into a second overload. Sometimes that was good, laying there and taking a joor or more to just enjoy, but Ricochet was driving, slowly but steadily, toward his own climax.

He snaked his his hand around Smokescreen’s waist and gently scratched at the edge of his spike cover. Smokescreen gasped, pleasure spiking, at the sudden tiny sting and the realization that Ricochet’s claws were once again positioned to do damage. He didn’t need to be told this time; the cover slid aside. Ricochet rolled them to the side so that there was room for Smokescreen’s mostly-pressurized spike to fall in his hand. Running his claws gently over the spike was enough to have Smokescreen shuddering anxiously, caught between pleasure at the strange, gentle touch and the fear that just a bit more pressure would take his spike off completely.

“What are—”

“Quiet,” Ricochet rumbled, too pleased and relaxed to summon up a truly threatening tone, but he punctuated it with a gentle scrape of his claws over Smokescreen’s spike that had him shuddering in  _ near-overload _ even as he impaled himself further on Ricochet’s spike trying to get away from those deadly points. “I said y’were gonna let me do whatever I wanted. I want ta hear ya  _ scream _ again, mech. I want y’ta know y’ _ enjoyed _ being used.”

Smokescreen shuddered again, valve clamping  _ deliciously _ on to Ricochet’s spike. Silently Ricochet checked  _ dirty talk _ on Smokescreen’s yes-list. 

Ricochet’d slept with a lot of mechs that had a claw fetish. It was pretty common in Polyhex, and few mechs who didn’t have at least an inkling of one hit on enforcers whose claws didn’t retract. So he knew not to keep using his claws on Smokescreen’s spike as he pleasured the mech. Instead he brought his other hand up to the mech’s neck and nestled the claws in amongst the cables there. He knew just how to do it too, to make the mech freeze in terror lest he cause Ricochet to rip something, but in fact there was no danger of injury at all, no sharp edges or points anywhere near something that could tear. 

Smokescreen squeaked, freezing while Ricochet pleasured him and himself.

This was no longer the warm, languid frag of earlier, but Ricochet still took them up and over the edge of overload so slowly he felt  _ surprise _ in Smokescreen’s field as they hit the peak, and fell over that edge together.

Smokescreen  _ did _ cry out, though it wasn’t really a scream. 

Ricochet didn’t care. This time he was spent and he pulled out his depressurizing spike. The Praxan keened in loss, and with a chuckle, Ricochet inserted a couple of fingers to support the mech through the sudden shock of  _ emptiness. _

Ricochet wasn’t the cuddler his twin was, but he definitely enjoyed this, wrapped around his lover in the aftermath of overload, the mech’s aftershocks clenching gently down on his fingers. Ricochet knew better than to let the mesh close tightly around his claws, so he withdrew as the calipers reset, and instead rested his hand on the mech’s leg. He just breathed in the mech’s exhaled heat and revelled in being  _ calm. _

“G’off’m,” Smokescreen muttered as soon as his aftershocks faded.

The enforcer did so immediately, though he didn’t go far. Instead, he watched as Smokescreen rolled over onto all fours, defiant and shaking. “Smokescreen,” Ricochet said, “come here. Lay down with me.”

“You know I don’t  _ actually _ roll over to every threat you make, right?” the mech snarled.

“No threats,” Ricochet said quietly. Quiet wasn’t his nature, but fear play was stressful, and he didn’t want to spook Smokescreen any further. “Just lay down with me. Ya do know I ain’t  _ actually _ gonna tear ya t’pieces, right?”

Smokescreen frowned, the knowledge of  _ well of course not, I wanted this _ warring with the certainty that Ricochet was a scary, scary mech who’d held Smokescreen down and threatened him into compliance while  _ using _ him…  

“Come here.” Ricochet insisted, curling his hands into loose fists that withdrew his claws from play. Anyone in Polyhex would recognize that gesture as Ricochet making an effort to be nonthreatening, but Smokescreen didn’t even look. “Lay down. Let me tell you how good and wonderful a mech you are, and how I would never, ever hurt you.”

It was like luring wild cybertriops to take food from his hand, Smokescreen was so skittish, but eventually he yielded to Ricochet’s coaxing and laid down. They curled up together, and Ricochet ran the backs of his hands over Smokescreens plating, soothing. The Praxan shuddered through a sob and shook with anxiety. 

“I’m not your toy,” he said with surprising conviction, given his state.

“No y’ain’t,” Ricochet agreed and smiled into Smokescreen’s chevron at the flash of  _ surprise _ in his field. “Yer a beautiful, self-assured mech who belongs ta no one ‘cept his own self. Y’like a bit’a fear with yer sex. Nothin’ at all wrong with that. I can be pretty scary when I want ta though.”

“You totally can,” Smokescreen managed a shaky laugh; the sound made Ricochet’s spark lift. He’d be willing to bet — and Ricochet was not usually a betting mechanism — that outside these times where he enjoyed being afraid because of his kink, Smokescreen was a pretty fragging fearless mech. Brave as anything. Ricochet liked that in a lover.

“That’s for ya. I’ll be scary for ya. And today I was in a headspace ta enjoy that a lot more than I thought I would, but only because it was what ya wanted,” Ricochet assured. “I ever think yer agreeing ta interface because yer scared of me, I’ll be out of here so fast ya’d think m’aft had caught fire.”

Smokescreen laughed again, his shaking easing.

“I won’t ever hurt ya,” Ricochet continued, soothing away the mech’s jitters and fears. “I’ll be scary for ya, but I won’t ever hurt ya.”

“And if I want you to hurt me?” Smokescreen squirmed. “I… ah,  _ really _ liked it when you bit me.”

“We can talk about that later.” If there was a later. Ricochet wasn’t going get tied down in a relationship today. This had been good, exactly what he needed. He was calm and settled and hadn’t thought about how much he missed _angry he was at_ his twin since he’d started round two. But this was just sex. Repeat wasn’t necessarily on the table. “Meanwhile, just lay here with me.”

“‘Kay,” Smokescreen said, settling — comfortably this time, rather than tense and fearful — against him. Ricochet breathed in the heat he released and listened to the mech’s systems slow. Vents, fuel pump… calmed. He was no longer overload-hot, but he cooled further. Heat retreated from the mech, spilled out into the air to dissipate. Slowly his systems evened out, into something very close to recharge. 

Ricochet didn’t follow him. He just held the mech close, chest to chest, Smokescreen’s head tucked protectively under his chin (careful though, not to get gouged on those chevron points), legs tangled… This was nice.  _ Really _ nice.

Mentally he was making lists: groups of kinksters in the ghetto he could put Smokescreen in touch with so he had more options than just Ricochet to mess around with, mechs Ricochet knew whose kinks lined up with Smokescreen’s a bit better than Ricochet’s did under normal circumstances, so that he could be sure they got introduced, making sure Smokescreen had his number in case the subdrop hit him in a couple of orns since he seemed fine now, what excuses he was going to feed Titanium about coming back so monumentally late… 

As if on cue,  _ “Ricochet!” _ Titanium barked across Ricochet’s comsuite.  _ “You’re late.” _

_ “Aware’a that, boss.” _ When in doubt, the truth always made a good excuse, didn’t it?

_ “Trouble?” _

_ “Not even a bit,” _ Ricochet said back.  _ “I’ve got all th’money, collected on time. Didn’t even have ta pull out m’baton. As usual.” _ At least for this group. Tomorrow’s promised to put up more of a fight. Ricochet was looking forward to it.  _ “I’ll deliver it as soon as I’m finished here.” _

_ “Finished  _ **_where?”_ ** Titanium snapped.  _ “No detours.” _

_ “Didn’t. Smokescreen made a pass —  _ **_after_ ** _ he gave me the money — and yer th’one telling me I gotta get laid more often. Making sure he’s okay before I leave. Comin’ straight t’ya.” _

A long, possibly disapproving silence before Titanium said,  _ “We will talk then.” _

Ricochet gulped. That sounded ominous.  _ “Sure, boss.” _

He waited, but that was apparently it so he let out a breath. He ran the back of his hand over Smokescreen’s doorwing, to sooth himself as much as the near-sleeping mech.

Who stirred, “Wha—?”

“Ya feeling better now?” Ricochet asked. 

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good, let’s get us cleaned up and I’ll buff those scratches out before I leave.”

Smokescreen nodded and levered himself up off the berth, groaning. “Fraaag. Ow. You weren’t gentle at all.”

“Ya alright?” Ricochet asked worriedly. If his messed up headspace had actually caused him to  _ hurt _ a lover he’d… go confess his crimes to the police or something equally drastic. Maybe some prison time would straighten him out. “Did I hurt ya?”

“No. Just sore.” Smokescreen stretched, wincing. “Really sore. Not going to be doing that again for a while, but I’m fine.” The Praxan turned back to Ricochet and smirked. “If you’re  _ really _ worried, you can make it up to me while we’re in the bath.” He ran his hands over his now-closed spike cover in a gesture so seductive Ricochet had to remind himself that Smokescreen really was much less experienced than he seemed.

Sneaky, conniving, devious mech, Ricochet thought as he own valve pinged for attention. “Frag, yes.”

Titanium could wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~It was just a one time thing.~~

Once upon a time, Ricochet had loved fighting with his twin. It had just been another way he and Jazz had communicated. 

Today though, Jazz had been in his face, hissing out words that, as usual, had nothing to do with the real problem, and Ricochet had been screaming back. Both had bared their claws, snarled in ways that set Ricochet’s hackles up, but also relaxed the tense cables along his spinal strut with just how  _ familiar _ it was… and then, as he’d pulled back to rake his claws along Jazz’s visor, Ricochet had realised he didn’t know how this would end. 

Despite Ricochet’s advantages of thicker armor and a stronger frame, he and his twin were evenly matched in skill. When Jazz and Ricochet fought, who appeared to win depended more on who  _ needed _ to win. But the mental fight, the emotional fight, the one over their  _ bond _ wasn’t happening. He didn’t really know what his twin was angry about. He barely knew what he himself was angry about. He certainly didn’t have any sense of which of them would win this fight. All Ricochet was getting was Jazz’s snarled words. 

He’d pulled back his claws and turned and left without another word, cutting Jazz off mid-snarl.

Now Ricochet was in one of the seediest bars he knew of in Little Polyhex. He’d hoped to come here, get drunk, and get in a massively destructive bar fight. Primus had decided against it; Ricochet had arrived to find the place open, but empty, and he’d ended up nursing a caustic high-grade concoction, moodily staring at it as it fizzed and popped, trying to eat its way out of the cube. Idly he imagined that once it succeeded, it’d start eating it’s way through the table and drip to the floor like one of those slimy mechanisms mostly made of hydrocarbons that infested Polyhex’s tunnels during the rainy season. Just goop that moved and ate whatever surface it ended up on. Pests had to be pretty aggressively cleared out of the city’s tunnels, or people who brushed up against the slime on a wall or ran over it with their tires would pick up enough of the barely alive goop for it to survive and breed, after which it’d crawl into their internals and start eating their energon lines and circuits. Nasty sort of infection. Ricochet himself had had to go through the arduous decontamination process about a dozen times, usually along with Jazz, because smugglers picked the slime up in the sacred tunnels more often than any other sort of mechs, besides miners. 

Ricochet obviously had an early stage of their evolution here in his cube. He was still undecided if that meant he’d finally tipped over the edge into actively suicidal to be drinking it.

Primus, he didn’t even know what his twin had been saying. He hadn’t really been listening. He’d never really had to listen to what Jazz was  _ saying _ to know what the problem was and how to solve it. He didn’t know how.

“So I hear this is where all the morosely depressed enforcers hang out,” Smokescreen drawled as he slid into the booth across from Ricochet, uninvited.

Despite himself, the whiff of gossip he hadn’t heard yet caught Ricochet’s interest. Especially gossip that involved himself. “Is it really?”

“Nope,” Smokescreen said brightly. “I was across the street and saw you come in here. Decided to see if you were up for a hook up.”

Yes Please, went his libido. If he wasn’t going to be able to get into a bar fight, interfacing was a good second option. But he also didn’t feel up to playing the sort of game Smokescreen wanted. 

“Ain’t th’mech y’want today,” Ricochet said instead.

“And just what do you  _ think _ I’m looking for?” Smokescreen said threateningly. To Ricochet it was rather like being bitten by a newly sparked cyberkitten, all flimsy-soft claws and tiny, tiny teeth and barely-heard growls that made a mech want to cuddle it, rather than invoking any sort of fear.

“Y’want someone t’hold ya down and scare ya. That ain’t me today.” Ricochet made a gesture towards the door of the bar. “Gave ya a list. Maybe one’a them’s free ta show ya a good time right now. Or maybe they know who would be.”

“I’ve been talking to a couple of them. I’ve also been going to that kinkster’s club thing you recommended.” A heat-blush spread across Smokescreen’s frame, clearly visible in the dim Polyhexian-owned bar, hottest at the tips of his chevron and doorwings. He leaned in closer to Ricochet to lower his voice, despite the distinct lack of eavesdroppers in the bar. “Froise said that if I liked being taken with no preparation like you did a couple of decaorns ago, I should use a toy to stretch myself before the ‘scene’.”

“S’a good idea,” Ricochet allowed, ignoring the mech’s embarrassment. “But that’s why I’m not the right mech for ya, mech. I was in a really weird headspace last time. That ain’t what I like.”

“That’s okay,” Smokescreen tried for unrepentant, but he was still blushing too much to pull it off. “I don’t have a toy on me right now.” The image of Smokescreen walking around the streets with a false spike in his valve, gently seeping lubricant, had Ricochet’s fans spinning suddenly on. He denied a request from his spike-cover to retract, but didn’t bother trying to hide his arousal from Smokescreen, who grinned triumphantly. He leaned in closer, whispering in Ricochet’s audio, “You like that thought, don’t you? You do! Seem’s your ‘weird headspace’ isn’t as much a one-time thing as you thought. What, exactly, do you like about it? The idea of me driving myself  _ crazy _ just to be ready for you, or that I  _ want _ you to violate me?”

Primus help him,  _ both. _

If he was going to let Smokescreen seduce him like this, he should probably ping his twin--

Arousal crashed right back into depression. No. He didn’t need to warn Jazz.

Smokescreen noticed, of course. “What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong? I thought you were liking that.”

“Was,” Ricochet acknowledged. “Ain’t your fault. I’m just a mess, and I ain’t in the mood for that right now.”

“Okay.” Smokescreen’s blush deepened. “Tell me what you want then.”

What did he want? “Nothin’ kinky,” he said. “Nothin’ fancy. Overload or three, just ta help distract from a slag-pile orn.”

“Sure,” the Praxan said. “Sounds fun.”

“Here?”

“WHAT! No! Of course not!” But Smokescreen’s fans clicked on and Ricochet could feel the excitement in his field. 

Ricochet grinned, warming to this idea. Adrenaline junkie  _ and _ prudish Praxan. 

This wasn’t a bar Ricochet normally frequented, but if it was this dead now, then unless some other poor aft who didn’t care where he was as long as it was close walked in, then no one was going to walk in until shift-change in a few joors. Silently he commed the bartender and offered him six hundred shanix to not look over here. The mech accepted the money transfer without a word, and when Smokescreen’s optics flicked over to him he must not have been watching because the Praxan didn’t panic. “What if we’re caught?”

The enforcer shrugged and moved around the table, conveniently trapping Smokescreen in the booth with him. “And what if we are? It actually gonna do yer rep any harm if yer known t’be fraggin’ me?” Ricochet took Smokescreen’s hand and lifted it to his lips. Visor and optics locked, he kissed the tip of one finger, then licked it, purposely sliding the edge of one fang against delicate plating. Smokescreen’s vents hitched and Ricochet saw him look over at the bartender again. Ricochet took the chance to take the whole finger into his mouth and sucked on it, gently pricking with one fang.

Smokescreen threw his head back and let out a quiet, strangled groan as his spike cover popped open. He _ eep!ed _ and tried to cover his slowly extending spike with his hands, but Ricochet slid closer, shielding Smokescreen from casual view with his body, and reached for it with the hand not occupied with keeping Smokescreen’s hand from escaping.

“Ricochet…” Smokescreen’s voice was breathy, excited, and slightly afraid.

Ricochet let go of the mech’s hand to hold his head gently, making visor contact with the mech’s optics. “You don’t want to, tell me no. Or safeword. Either one.”

Smokescreen looked back. Ricochet saw the knowledge in his optics that Ricochet was a Family  _ enforcer, _ a strong mech with a reputation for violence. As far as Smokescreen knew, Ricochet could take whatever he damn well wanted -- he could  _ definitely _ overpower Smokescreen easily -- but he wasn’t. And today he wasn’t even going to pretend he had an unwilling partner. Smokescreen could say no. But did he want to?

His optics flicked back up to the bartender, who still must not have been watching because, “Hurry up,” were his words. “Before we’re caught.”

Ricochet grinned and kissed the mech, long and slow and doing anything but  _ hurrying up. _

Smokescreen made a noise of frustration and clutched at Ricochet’s shoulders. They were already touching in all sorts of interesting places -- like Ricochet’s hand still on Smokescreen’s spike -- but Smokescreen tried to pull them closer. More. Harder.  _ Faster Primusdamnit! _ But Ricochet resisted and stayed stubbornly where he was. Smokescreen’s engine let out a strangled whine of frustration.

The Polyhexian broke off the kiss to whisper, “Keep makin’ noises like that, an’ y’can kiss ‘discrete’ goodbye, mech.”

“Hurry up and I  _ won’t,” _ Smokescreen hissed, even as his fans ratcheted up a notch and his engine gave a hastily throttled-down growl of arousal.

Teasingly, Ricochet licked Smokescreen’s chevron, and the mech squeaked. 

“I ain’t th’one worried about being caught, mech,” he whispered. And he wasn’t. An empty bar was downright  _ private _ by Polyhexian standards. Public sex wasn’t taboo to him the way it was to Smokescreen. He nibbled on Smokescreen’s chevron more, certainly in no hurry to get to the main event.

Smokescreen whined again, clutching at Ricochet and thrashing. For a moment he thought the gambler was going to beg, but no. Instead he panted, trying to cool and slow his engine a bit, and with a look of intense concentration started playing with the vents above one of Ricochet’s fans. Ricochet let out a full-volume  _ groan _ of appreciation. Smokescreen froze, optics locked on the bartender, and Ricochet gave a breathy laugh.

“You’re not  _ helping,” _ the Praxan hissed.

“Oh,” Ricochet drawled back. “Am I supposed to help? Fine.”

HIs hand was still wrapped around Smokescreen’s now entirely hard spike. He gave it a gentle squeeze, rubbing over every sensor node he could from the base to the tip, and reveled in the hastily strangled  _ squawk _ Smokescreen let out. Despite how his earlier fantasies had centered around spiking this mech as hard as his body would take, it was Ricochet’s valve that clenched down at what they were doing now. He swung over on the bench, aft bumping the table and spilling some of the corrosive energon-based life form, to straddle Smokescreen, who scooted as far back against the back of the seat as he could.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Ricochet ground his valve-cover against Smokescreen’s leg. It made obscene little  _ squeaky-squick _ noises, and Ricochet knew he’d be walking around with paint transfers there for a while. The thought of Smokescreen’s bright white thigh paint adorning his valve-cover was  _ almost _ as arousing as the thought of the Praxan walking around with Ricochet’s black. Ricochet wasn’t a possessive lover at  _ all, _ but he did like the thought of Smokescreen being  _ marked.  _ **_Mine._ ** He slowly pumped Smokescreen’s spike in his hand in time with his grinding; Smokescreen whined, panted, optics locked on the bartender. Ricochet would feel offended about that, except he could feel how much  _ hotter _ the thought of trying, desperately, not to be caught while Ricochet took his time was making him. Adrenaline junkie.

Ricochet finally let his valve-cover snap open, turning the  _ squeak _ noises into a nice, delightfully loud  _ squelch _ as lubricant dripped from his valve, rubbing between them. Smokescreen whined, a bit louder.

This position didn’t let either Ricochet or Smokescreen take the time to prepare Ricochet’s valve, so he took Smokescreen’s spike slowly. An impatient jerk from his partner had Ricochet repositioning his hands to hold Smokescreen down and still. Rocking gently, he took almost half a breem to let just the head into his valve. Smokescreen threw back his head in relief and pleasure and started to cry out--

With a smirk Ricochet slapped his hand over Smokescreen’s mouth. After all, if he let Smokescreen get too loud, then he’d figure out that Ricochet had done something when the bartender still didn’t look up to see what was going on.

Smokescreen looked embarrassed and horrified and terribly, terribly aroused, locking optics on Ricochet, then looking back to the bartender. He seemed frozen now, unwilling or unable to even twitch lest he do something to attract that so-dreaded attention.

_ Primus _ but Ricochet was horribly aroused too. He wasn’t in the mood to play the scary enforcer for Smokescreen, true, but even so, there was just something  _ intoxicating _ about the mech’s body beneath him rigid with fear and arousal, held down and unable to cry out, while Ricochet took his time. Sparks crackled over them both, as Ricochet finally,  _ finally, _ took Smokescreen’s whole spike into his valve, clenching rhythmically as his body adjusted to the intrusion. 

Ricochet groaned. “Yer perfect, mech.  _ Feel _ so good.” Smokescreen twitched, looking briefly back to Ricochet, and gave an aborted thrust. Ricochet gave him a nasty grin. “Said I wanted an overload or  _ three, _ remember that, mech? Remember how you said you were up for it?” Smokescreen gave a muffled protest. No. No. No. He was  _ not _ going to sit here and hold out and get  _ caught _ while Ricochet took his time. “What’s that?” Ricochet drawled. “Sounds good, you say?”

He cut off Smokescreen’s next cascade of muffled words by drawing himself almost all the way off the mech’s spike, then slamming himself down hard enough to almost make them both overload on the spot. Suddenly it wasn’t  _ words _ Smokescreen was trying to yell out around Ricochet’s hand.

“Y’overload before I’ve gotten three and I’ll be  _ very _ disappointed in you,” he said quietly in the mech’s audio. He actually wouldn’t, really. Mech was a whole lot closer to overload than Ricochet was.

Not that Ricochet’s first overload took very long at all. A few more hard thrusts and he was clamping down on Smokescreen’s spike as sparks flew away from his plating. He remembered not to shout out, but to groan lowly, as though he really were playing along with Smokescreen’s desire to not get caught. The Praxan let out a high-pitched engine whine of strain, and Ricochet chuckled as he went limp for a moment. Mech really was going to try and hold out.

Just to be an aft, Ricochet went slow for his next. Languidly he moved up and down on Smokescreen’s spike, making sure he hit  _ aaaaalllll _ the sensor nodes with his valve walls as he squeezed gently. Smokescreen thrashed again, thrusting as much as he could while pinned down in the seat of a booth. Ricochet heard another splash as his abandoned drink spilled more out onto the table.

Ricochet took his hand from Smokescreen’s mouth so he could better hear the mech pant and gasp and whine in  _ need. _ Sparks crackled over them both in purple arcs that were blinding in the gloom. 

Finally after what had to have seemed like an eternity of torturously slow thrusts, Ricochet whispered, “Overload for me.”

With a strangled shout, Smokescreen did, thrusting up to spurt transfluid right up to Ricochet’s ceiling node. Electricity crackled through Smokescreen’s systems, grounding and flowing into Ricochet, who followed, shedding bright blue and purple sparks into the air around them. The poor abused table gave a lurch and dumped Ricochet’s drink on the floor in protest.

They laid there in a sticky, sated heap, and recovered. Ricochet felt  _ much _ better and Smokscreen just looked dazed. He gave a low, husky chuckle as he tiredly slid off the Praxan and back in the seat next to him. He didn’t bother closing his valve-panel yet. “See, mech? Nothin’ bad’s gonna happen.”

Smokescreen snapped out of it with an  _ eep! _ He pulled his spike back in and snapped his panel closed so fast it must have been uncomfortable for him. 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into that!” he hissed, voice some hilarious mix of mortified, angry, and still-aroused. He started looking himself over and screeched when he saw the paint transfers Ricochet had left on his outer thighs and lap, plain as black on white. Ricochet’s black on Smokescreen’s white thigh. “I can’t go outside like this!”

Ricochet felt his visor widen. “Says the person who said he’d walk around with a toy in his valve just in case someone wanted to  _ violate _ ‘im.”

“That’s different!”

Praxans. “Well if it really bothers ya, there’s a public bath not far from here. Ya want, I’ll pay yer entrance fee.”

Silently Ricochet transferred the funds to pay for his drink and the broken cube, which Smokescreen didn’t seem to have noticed. Because if he had, he’d be outraged about more than paint transfers. It made it mighty suspicious the bartender hadn’t come over to clean up the mess. Bartender wasn’t stupid. He knew he had one of Titanium’s enforcers in his bar, and his choices were get paid to stay on the other end of the room or Ricochet’d ruin his relationships -- money or favors or family, whatever they may be -- with Titanium’s Family. Wisely, he was ignoring the mess they’d made until they left.

“Really? Polys do that? Public baths?” said Smokescreen. Then his optics narrowed. “And what’s in it for you?”

“For real Polys do public baths,” Ricochet answered. “I’ll even scrub ya up real nice.” He leaned in close to whisper, “Only got two’a m’three overloads afterall. Was thinking bathtub’s a good place ta…  _ violate _ ya.”

Smokescreen’s fans spun on. “How public are we talking?”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [It's All in the Genre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8619055) by [Rizobact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact)




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